


break and burn and end

by Solanaceae



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Vampires, War of Wrath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 07:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16214126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solanaceae/pseuds/Solanaceae
Summary: Ilmarë catches up to her (Thuringwethil allows her to catch up to her) in a grove of pines that tower into late afternoon sun, needles gilded and shadows dark and cool. Thuringwethil is leaning against the base of one of the trees, listening to the sound of footsteps muffled by fallen needles, and when Ilmarë emerges from the gloom, Thuringwethil feels a savage, knife-sharp smile tugging at her lips.





	break and burn and end

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Wavesinger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy!

 

Thuringwethil does not have her old wings, but she has the armor of fury and hatred she has woven in the centuries that have passed since she last saw Ilmarë. She watches the armies of the Valar sweep across Beleriand, the light of their passing eating away at Morgoth’s darkness, and she stays in the shadows. Does not emerge to fight for her old master. Does not take the side of the Valar, either.

Part of her knows what will happen. Not with Morgoth—his downfall is a foregone conclusion. Her own as well, but the form it will take… that is still a mystery to her.

But when she feels a familiar prickle of hard-edged light like a chill down the back of her neck, she smiles, because she  _ did _ know, and Ilmarë has not disappointed her.

She does not  _ want _ to run, but leads Ilmarë on a meandering chase through sinking Beleriand regardless. The Handmaid of Varda pursues her with unwavering determination. Thuringwethil has to admire that—some things have not changed, she can already tell. Whether Ilmarë has changed at all in their faraway homeland remains to be seen.

Ilmarë catches up to her (Thuringwethil allows her to catch up to her) in a grove of pines that tower into late afternoon sun, needles gilded and shadows dark and cool. Thuringwethil is leaning against the base of one of the trees, listening to the sound of footsteps muffled by fallen needles, and when Ilmarë emerges from the gloom, Thuringwethil feels a savage, knife-sharp smile tugging at her lips.

Ilmarë wears silver armor and a long, pale purple cloak that brushes the ground as she strides toward Thuringwethil. She carries a steel-tipped spear, the polished grain of the wooden haft nearly glowing. Against her dark skin, the long silver of her hair and the strange, star-like pallor of her eyes stand out, a study in contrasts that Thuringwethil once delighted in gazing at. Those eyes now fasten on her, sweep her up and down, and narrow.

“You,” Ilmarë says. 

“Me,” Thuringwethil replies, rising to her feet and spreading her hands. “Did you miss me terribly? I can’t imagine why else you would pursue me so ardently.”

“I cannot imagine why I would miss a traitor.” 

“That’s hardly a denial, Ilmarë.” Thuringwethil lingers on her name, curling her tongue intimately around the last syllable. Ilmarë stiffens almost imperceptibly. “Well, now that you have me, what shall you do with me?”

“Bring you to justice. Nessa would see her handmaiden returned and chastised.”

Thuringwethil scoffs. “Why?”

“It is that sort of inappropriate questioning that led to your fall,” Ilmarë snaps, her composure fracturing for just a moment. 

“If I am to be condemned for questioning, I would far rather fall than live in blind obedience.” She tilts her head to one side, considering. “It seems the same is not true for you.”

Ilmarë moves in a blur, the blunt end of her spear hurtling toward Thuringwethil’s head. Thuringwethil sees it coming, could easily dodge, but she stays perfectly still and lets Ilmarë strike her, lets the darkness snap shut around her like jaws. 

***

She wakes chained to rock, cold iron biting into her wrists and ankles and throat. There is no light down here, though she can see perfectly well if she clicks her tongue and listens for the echo, and the only noise is that of water dripping steadily somewhere nearby.

Ilmarë leaves her alone in the cave for a long stretch of time. Perhaps she thinks that waiting in the dark will soften Thuringwethil; if so, she underestimates Thuringwethil and the time she has spent in shadow since leaving Nessa’s service in Valinor. 

Eventually, footsteps echo down the cave, and Ilmarë appears, descending a set of stairs hewn into the rock. She carries a white lantern that she sets in a cleft in the rock. Thuringwethil is chained on her knees, and so has to strain her neck to look up at her.

“So this is your justice?” she asks Ilmarë. 

“Not mine. Justice belongs to none.”

“Yet someone decides what is just and what is not.” Thuringwethil bares her teeth. “You are a slave, Ilmarë, even if you do not realize it.”

“I would choose to do this even without orders.”

“And what are your orders?”

“We are hunting down those who fell under Melkor’s shadow, to bring them back to Valinor to be judged.” Ilmarë lifts her chin slightly, steel-pale eyes fixed on Thuringwethil. “Your kind cannot be allowed free to wreak havoc on the survivors of Middle-earth.”

“Then why not hand me over?”

Ilmarë’s brow furrows almost imperceptibly. “I do not know of what you speak.”

Thuringwethil laughs, short and savage. “ _ Dearest _ Ilmarë. I cannot help but notice that you have chained me here by your own hand, and I have seen nary a sight of another besides you. Do you mean to keep me as your own pet, and begrudge the sharing of me? A strange way of  _ bringing me to justice _ , to be sure.”

“What would you prefer, that I turn you over?” Ilmarë’s hand fastens in Thuringwethil’s hair, pulling her head back and forcing her to meet her gaze. It is meant to be intimidating, surely. The sharp pain makes Thuringwethil shudder in an entirely different way.

Their faces are inches apart. There’s a darkening flush high in Ilmarë’s cheeks, her breath coming fast with anger and perhaps—something else.

“I would prefer that you tell the truth,” Thuringwethil breathes. “Do you remember, Ilmarë? How well we loved each other, before?”

“Before you were tempted by Melkor,” Ilmarë shoots back. 

Thuringwethil shrugs as best she can with Ilmarë’s hand still tangled in her hair and yanking her head back. “Before I realized what an eternity of servitude to the Valar meant. Before I saw a  _ better _ way.”

“Your master’s way has brought nothing but death and mourning.”

“ _ My _ master?” Thuringwethil scoffs. “I am my own master, Ilmarë. You ought to try such freedom on yourself, see how well it fits.”

“You named yourself my enemy when you turned to shadow,” Ilmarë says, but there is uncertainty wavering in her voice, and her grip on Thuringwethil’s hair is loosening. 

“You do not need to lie to yourself. Not here,” Thuringwethil says quietly. “Your enemies are those you choose to fight against. You have not fought me.”

A long pause. “I could never,” Ilmarë whispers at last, barely audible. “But it is my duty—”

Thuringwethil waits and watches the warring emotions cross Ilmarë’s face. Then Ilmarë gestures, and the chains around Thuringwethil shudder, then fall to the stone floor with a clang. Thuringwethil surges forward to kiss Ilmarë, laying claim in her hunger to the sweet light she can taste on Ilmarë’s lips, a memory of Valinor.

***

To call what they do  _ making love _ would be misleading—there is little love in their frantic movements, the hungry swallowing of breath. A memory of love, perhaps, of a light long since passed. Still, to touch another being in something other than battle (no matter how battle-like this may be) is something Thuringwethil has not done in a long time. 

And afterwards, though Ilmarë doubtless thinks it foolish, and Thuringwethil  _ knows _ it to be foolish, they fall asleep against each other. Thuringwethil’s fleeting, half-remembered dreams are steeped in starlight and the taste of Ilmarë.

She wakes first.

Ilmarë’s lantern is guttering low, but still casts enough light for Thuringwethil to see the slow, steady rise and fall of Ilmarë’s chest. She is naked—both of them are—and her lavender cloak is half-thrown over her as a blanket, pale against the dark of her skin. 

Thuringwethil raises herself up on her elbows and realizes that Ilmarë has not chained her to the wall again.

For a moment, she wavers. What she needs to do is obvious; what she wants to do is… less so. 

_ Bring them back to Valinor to be judged _ . Ilmarë’s earlier words echo in her mind, and she bites her lip, worrying at the delicate skin with pointed teeth. Then opens her mouth, leans down until she is hovering just above Ilmarë. 

She presses her teeth to Ilmarë’s throat, fancying for a moment that desire shivering in her mouth is echoed in the steady pulse in the hollow of Ilmarë’s neck. Ilmarë shifts in her sleep, lips parting ever so slightly, and her breath smells like sweet starlight. Thuringwethil closes her eyes, just for a moment, and her limbs tingle with a memory of dance.

She opens Ilmarë’s throat with a swift movement, salt-iron heat sudden in her mouth. Ilmarë stiffens under her, but her eyes do not open. She is feigning sleep, Thuringwethil realizes, letting Thuringwethil go, even though she could easily stop her.

Thuringwethil laps at the wound in Ilmarë’s neck, drinks her fill. She feels strength flow back into her, strength that burns the back of her throat in the same way the distant stars do when she looks at them too closely. 

When she has drunk her fill, she kisses Ilmarë softly. Already, the wound at Ilmarë’s throat is knitting back together, the edges of torn skin reforming seamless. She needs to hurry, else this farce will have been pointless.

“Don’t stop chasing me,” Thuringwethil whispers. “I won’t stop running.”

She rises, leaving Ilmarë lying on the cave floor, and starts up the stairs.   
  



End file.
